Kismet
by WhiteLadyoftheRing
Summary: AU Can Team Possible save the world from the greatest evil? . . . the Plague, the End of the World . . . and Kismet just a breath away . . . Will eventually be KimxRon. Updated Chapter Two 10.10.05
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I don't own Kim Possible. Damn.

_A Note from the Authoress: Well, I'm back. I know Limits of Our Love has not been updated, but I've finally decided it needs to go on hiatus. If you like it, then know that I will finish it eventually; if you don't, relax in the thought you've got some time without having to see it mar your monitor when it pops up on ffn for a while. ;)_

_Okay, about this story: I took a break from Limits of Our Love to write a one-shot that will hopefully be submitted to the next fanfic contest and a new, shorter novel called Requiem. Requiem is even about a third of the way done! But . . . well, I have very little of the beginning written, so it'll be awhile before you see it. But then! I was in the middle of Oz rehearsal and this story just popped into my head. Not what I usually write, and it's sort of open-ended right now. It's got an idea but not a set in stone plot yet. I'm expecting somewhere between novella and novel length, but most likely the former. Lots of short chapters . . . I'm not being the anal person I usually am about word count on this one. Well, anyway, this is the prologue, which is mostly angst. The horror will come in soon, promise. :)_

_Enjoy!

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_**Kismet**_

**Prologue**

_-November 3, 2005-_

It was raining. Rather appropriate, he thought. He'd once heard that it only rained when angels cried, but he'd never believed it, not until today at least. Surely any angel would cry; the death of such a young woman warranted such. It was the kind of rain that made you sleepy, coaxing your eyelids to droop and your clarity of mind to mist over into that sort of fuzz that reigned between sleep and wake. But his body trudged along down the path regardless, for fear of what he would see should he give in and drift off into unconsciousness.

Shivering, he wrapped his wet jacket more firmly round himself.

It was an early November morning, he recalled, in Middleton, Colorado, and under other circumstances, he'd have been thankful for this light drizzle; a break from the incessant droughts this area had grown accustomed to. But dry grass and expensive water was no longer their greatest worry. No, now the Plague had officially arrived.

The Plague . . . no, it wasn't a disease carried by rodents or an illness that could wipe out entire populations in the span of a few years, but a series of mysterious deaths occurring around the world. This area had remained unaffected for a very long time, but one death, this one death, signaled its arrival.

The grave markers shone in the dim light, reflecting off their wet surfaces. At first, he'd tried to count the rows, but soon lost his train of thought to more important things . . . things like her. She wasn't his best friend, nor was he hers, but she'd managed to find a special place in his heart nonetheless. She never deserved this, not this sort of dreary ending. Just last week she'd been telling him how the school quarterback was beginning to take an interest in her! But now all that was gone. She was gone.

They ventured off the path now, moving across the wet ground, the soil and grass, softened by the rain, gave way under their feet here and there as what seemed to be the entire student body encircled the coffin suspended above the grave. They must have covered at least half the small cemetery, those on the outskirts paying their respects humbly; he assumed they were only acquaintances.

But there, there in the very front weren't her parents, but her close friends. Her parents had been killed only a few days sooner in a tragic car accident, leaving her to take refuge in the Possibles' home; a place where she was welcomed with open arms. Kim Possible was her best friend, as she was his, and so they stood, Kim Possible and Ron Stoppable, beside the body of a friend they'd never forget.

But next to Kim was a slightly stranger addition: her boyfriend, Josh Mankey. His arm was wrapped tightly round her, gently urging her to cry into his shoulder should she need it. But her eyes remained dry, staring blindly at the coffin.

Before long, whatever anyone had to say had been said, even without their hearing. Perhaps it was better that way; words were meaningless, after all. They couldn't bring the dead back to life, nor could they end the evil they would now have to face head on, perhaps at the cost of their lives.

The crowd dispersed, and Kim took the opportunity to turn fully into Josh, to wrap her arms round him and bury her face in his chest. But she did not cry; she restrained herself for the time being, trying to draw strength from his presence, but alas, she could not. Ron turned away, not wishing to intrude on the tender moment they were sharing, and ventured a little closer to the casket. Its surface shined back at him, allowing him to truly examine his own appearance for the first time since the Plague had started. He'd been forced to call on all his potential to face villains using the current tragedy to their advantage, often causing him and Kim to each take on their own mission at once. And here, staring into the reflective wood of his friend's coffin, he was finally seeing the results.

His form had filled out in these past few months, leaving him with well defined muscles on his formerly lanky frame. Even in his suit, he could make out the strong sinuous chest that lay beneath his shirt, no longer scrawny and boyish. His cold and numb hands, once soft and unmarred, carried a mass of little scars, hardened and worn. But beyond these obvious physical changes were the psychological effects. He looked into his own eyes, once warm, loving and ever humorous, and saw now that they were tired, as if he'd been to the ends of the earth, and within their brown depths, he could see his own pain, that sort of hurt that causes one's soul to become temporarily hollow.

He sighed and brushed his hair from his eyes.

"Ron?" came a tremulous voice from behind him.

He turned round slowly to see Josh walking away, back towards Kim's parents and the rest of the student body, and, approaching him cautiously, was a very distraught Kim Possible. "Hey, KP," he said softly, truly oblivious to how to handle this situation. He opened his arms and she immediately launched herself into them, clinging to him tightly and allowing herself to cry openly within his embrace. He whispered words of comfort to her, but all she could do was pull herself more tightly against him, sobbing his name over and over again.

When she had calmed down, he stroked her hair a few times then whispered, "Why don't you go back to Josh? I have a few things I need to take care of here, okay?"

She pulled away from him slightly, nodding and wiping at her nose and eyes. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but decided against it, and simply leaned forward and pressed her lips to his cheek before turning away to do as he'd suggested.

With a sigh, he turned back to the coffin. He wanted to say something, but would it really even matter? She wasn't there to listen; she was gone. "Well," he said to himself, "I guess this is goodbye. I only wish she'd be here to hear it." He dug around in his pocket, but pierced the skin of his forefinger with a thorn. "Damn," he cursed quietly, carefully retrieving the object. He studied it for a moment, noting that one of the pure white petals had been stained with his own blood.

He placed the rose reverently upon the casket and, with one final glance to the temporary grave marker, turned to join the other students in their mourning.

_MONIQUE JENKINS_

_B.: MARCH 17, 1988_

_D.: OCTOBER 31, 2005_

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_Please, review!_


	2. Chapter One

Disclaimer: Don't own Kim Possible.

_A Note from the Authoress: Yeah, no reviews yet. Sadness. Oh, well! If you're reading this, I really hope you're enjoying it, and, ya know, if you review it really helps me know what everyone's liking. Just a suggestion. If you're wondering, this isn't a Josh/Kim fic. I promise. And ummm . . . yeah, don't know what else to say._

_Enjoy!

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**Chapter One**

_-November 4, 2005-_

_See if they'd call him just a sidekick now. He held the small form beneath him with inhuman strength, his hands fully encompassing her lovely neck, threatening to strangle her to death if she even dare move. He heard a whimper from beneath him and he tightened his grasp, moving to straddle the girl for more leverage. His fingernails cut into her skin, drawing little trails of blood here and there. He shook her, causing her head to hit the hard floor beneath her, eliciting a little moan from her lips._

"_Oh, that was a nice sound," he sneered. "Maybe I should ask Josh if it's the same kind he hears."_

"_Ron . . ." her voice came out mangled and dry. "How . . . how could you?"_

"_Because I'm just the sidekick, right?"_

_Her eyes held a sort of utter betrayal that, normally, would have broken his heart. "No . . . of course not, Ron, I . . ."_

"_Right!" he cut her off with a violent shake. She whimpered. "Don't you see what we've become, Kim? What I've become?" He held off for a moment, moving to kneel over her. "What you've become?" He didn't give her a chance to speak, as he switched positions to hold her neck with one hand, using the other to stroke her hair lightly, almost tenderly. "You know, KP, I was so in love with you . . . for so long. Still am, actually. But you never saw that, did you?"_

_The terror in her eyes was all the answer he needed._

"_But something's changed now. But you didn't notice, huh? Not until Monique died. And you still don't see . . ." he trailed off in a mumbling rant, as if arguing with himself; the Ron she grew up with and the Ron that was threatening to kill her, or . . . or . . . or he might want to . . . no . . ._

"_We're all going to die, Kim, and it's all because of you." He laughed; a cold, heartless cackle that made her wince. "Ironic, huh? You spend all your life trying to save the world, and you wind up the one who's gonna destroy it. Kudos for that." His fingers began to trail down her face, lingering over her lips. She shivered. "If you'd only stuck to babysitting . . . no-one would be in this mess."_

_She tried to speak, but he silenced her quickly before digging around in his pocket for what appeared to be a brand. She shrunk into herself, trembling in fear. It was, indeed, like a brand, and she knew precisely what it was. There, in the shape of a rose, were several blades arranged onto the design, big enough to fit into the palm of one's hand . . . the mark of the Plague._

"_Yes, that's right. The Plague. We knew it couldn't be just one serial killer, didn't we? We knew, but we didn't." His grin was wild as he took her right wrist in his left hand. "We didn't want to think about what the truth could be. You won't save the world this time, KP, 'cause it's all your fault." She screamed as he brought the bladed brand down to her hand._

Ron woke in a flash, sitting straight up in bed, breathing hard. He looked round his darkened room in a panic, searching for some sign as to whether or not the horrible nightmare had actually occurred. Seeing only a mess of clothes scattered on the floor, and his teddy bear alarm clock and a little framed picture of Kim and him on the nightstand, he sighed and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

This was not the night to be having nightmares.

After Monique had died, Team Possible had refused all missions. It was a sad thing, really, as nations all round the world were forced to solve their own problems, no longer piling them on top of a couple of seventeen year old kids. Neither teen was really in the mental state to be freak fighting, but now they had more time . . . time to think. It was always about her, and it seemed like an eternity, although it had only been a few short days, and then, that morning, they'd buried her.

The clock read 2:14 AM.

He sighed and ventured over to his window, looking out into the calm that was Middleton. The town was hushed, as the Plague had finally arrived; no-one left their houses unless it was absolutely necessary. The city was at a stand-still. Who would have ever thought the death of one teenage girl could have brought so much fear to an entire city?

No, it wasn't the girl, it was how she died. The Plague was a series of mysterious deaths – murders – all round the world involving two very specific things: a series of small cuts on the hand, fashioned in the shape of a rose, and, from these wounds, a poison previously unheard of, and to which they'd not been able to create an antidote.

The victims were said to have suffered a painful death, lasting possibly thirty minutes before the venom caused them to lose consciousness. And yet, despite this, it would take only a split second to initiate one's end, sending them in a downward, inescapable spiral into the unknown.

He looked up to the sky.

His thoughts returned to the dream, that terror-filled realm where not only was he the source of the Plague itself, but worse, trying to kill Kim, his Kim. _His Kim?_ No, she wasn't his, she belonged to Josh, and that's the way it would remain. If anything, he still related to that in the dream, where he told her he loved her . . . but she was his best friend, not his girlfriend. Never would be.

She'd found another.

But he needed to talk to her about this dream, to get it off his chest. He grabbed some clothes and started down the stairs, stumbling into his pants as he did so. He was about to slip on his shirt as he opened the door, only to drop the garment in shock as, there on his doorstep, he saw the one and only Kim Possible.

"Hey, KP," he stammered, confused. "What's up?"

Shocked as well, she raised an eyebrow, "I could ask the same of you."

He blushed like a crushing schoolboy. "I was actually going to see you; I need to talk to you about something." He noticed her examining his bare torso and turned a deeper shade of pink. "You?"

"Same," she admitted reluctantly, raising her gaze a little sheepishly. His muscular arms and chest were a new sight to her, and she wondered how long she'd been ignoring these changes.

An awkward silence ensued, and they stood there, she in her flimsy pajamas, and he in only a pair of worn cargos, his boxers peeking out around the waist.

After a few moments, they both spoke at once, "I had a dream."

They did a double take, no jinxing or sodas this time. "A dream?" she asked quietly.

"A nightmare," he responded seriously, his eyes cold and heartless, as if trying to protect himself from the emotional consequences of reliving the experience.

"S-so did I," she trembled, the cold night air finally getting to her.

He opened his mouth as if to say something, but closed it again, lowering his eyes. He folded his arms to protect himself from the wind, too lost in thought to invite his companion inside . . . or into his arms.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"What for?" He did not look up.

"I'm sorry," she repeated, a little louder and more confident.

He sighed and scratched the back of his neck, not sure what to say. After all, as far as he was concerned, he should be apologizing to her, not the other way around. His mind was such a wreck lately, more so than usual, anyways. It really drained him, and he found that, try as he would, he could not act like he used to, not the funny guy with the equally funny haircut. Now he was just Ron Stoppable, sidekick turned unofficial partner, overworked and underappreciated. "Hey, KP, it's really cold out there . . ." as if to emphasize his point, she convulsed slightly. "Umm . . . come on in, let's watch a little TV, okay?" He grinned, trying to be as goofy as possible, but his eyes were still sad and worn.

A ghost of a smile graced her lips as she stepped inside. "Thanks," she said, trying to shake off the chill.

They sat together on the couch, flipping on the television and turning down the volume. Ron searched through the channels endlessly, trying to find one that wasn't some news report of the most recent Plague victim in whatever part of the world, but to no avail. Finally, he stood. "All right, then, we'll just watch a movie. What're you in the mood for?" He was already halfway to the DVD rack in the corner.

No response.

"KP?"

Silence.

He turned round to see her curled up at the opposite end of the couch, fast asleep. He smiled slightly, grabbing a nearby blanket, and moved over beside her, tucking her in warmly and placing a light kiss on the top of her head. "Sweet dreams, KP."

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The lone figure made its way through the cemetery quietly, as if avoiding waking the dead. A dried leaf crunched under his foot, breaking the disturbing silence. He did not know why he was returning, particularly in the dead of night, but he felt it necessary; he was compelled to retrieve the thing.

He found it odd that, of all the flowers in the world, the boy had put a rose on her grave. After all, wasn't it a rose that had killed her? True, white roses spoke of innocence, and were a powerful symbol, but how could he have been so blind to have not seen what he was doing?

He chuckled in spite of himself. Silly, silly boy. He was a bit quirky, but still a good guy at heart; he admired that about him. And his minimal amounts of jealousy when he began dating his best friend. True, he'd seen the looks of contempt that the sidekick had shot him at first, and the over protectiveness he showed for his best friend, but it was more endearing than infuriating.

But he must have the flower. He did not know why, only that he'd had a dream, a terrible, frightening dream and, upon waking, he could remember no details, none save the order to go find and retrieve the thing the boy had put on her grave.

He knew he could've come in daylight, and actually replaced the token; it would've felt less like grave robbing then. But he felt he had to do this immediately, as if it were of utmost importance. He'd woken in a start and immediately donned the clothes he'd just shed before turning in, and then headed for the cemetery. He looked at his watch.

It was 2:17 AM now.

A thought came to mind: what would he do with it after retrieving it? Burn it? Tear it to bits? No, that would be pointless. He could always keep it until the purpose became clearer. Yes, that's what he'd do. Surely he was going to all this trouble for a reason, or at least a reason more than cooling his restless mind.

Ah, there it was.

_MONIQUE JENKINS_

_B.: MARCH 17, 1988_

_D.: OCTOBER 31, 2005_

And there, beside the temporary marker was what he'd come for, the single white rose. It was wilting, he saw, and stained with blood on one side. The reddish brown was smeared across the petals, causing the soft texture to shrivel upon itself. _Hmmm . . ._

Josh pocketed the flower and made his way back home.

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_Please, review!_


	3. Chapter Two

Disclaimer: Don't own Kim Possible. Too bad. So sad.

_A Note from the Authoress: Hullo! Not a whole lot to report here. Some personal stuff . . . I got the lead in the school's dance concert! (Just had to share!) And come November 1, I will be starting an AUstory called Over the Hills and Far Away for my NaNoWriMo entry, so keep a look-out!_

_And thanks muchly for the reviews! I'll admit, I'm a review whore, but it's not for the attention or the review count; I honestly want to know what you think so I can improve my writing, even though I'm stubborn. Actually, right now, I'm keeping in mind some corrections Jezrianna2.0 gave me awhile back, because I'm glad she decided to help me so. I also like to know what you guys enjoy about the story; this is a story I'm writing for the readers, not me, so I love input!_

1WingedAngel_: Thanks for the review! Hope you enjoy this chapter.  
_MrDrP_: Ah, yes, the dreams. Well, in this chapter you're going to see that you weren't entirely wrong in your assumption. There's a bit of KR fuzz (the non-romantic breed of fluff) in this chapter, along with a little bit of Kim's thoughts of Josh's role in her life, so I think (and hope)you'll enjoy those parts. Hmm . . . book sounds interesting; might have to read it. Thanks for the review!_

_Enjoy!

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**Chapter Two**

_-November 4, 2005-_

Kim woke from her dreamless sleep to the smell of pancakes drifting in from the kitchen. She sighed, though she knew not exactly why, upon realizing she was lying on the Stoppables' living room couch, and not her own bed. No, she didn't wish to wake lying next to Josh, not now, at least. She loved him, but she still felt detached, as if she were wary of bringing the hectic nature of her own life into his.

She sat up, causing the blanket to fall from her shoulders. _Blanket? Ron . . . _He must've covered her up after she'd drifted off. Thinking back on it, she thought it vaguely rude to just doze off like that, but she couldn't help it; she hadn't slept in days. She'd been having horrible nightmares, and only the previous night had she chose to confront them.

_And Ron had one, too._

But she hadn't asked about it, and she wouldn't now. She'd finally been able to rest, and she didn't want to risk such torment again.

She stood and stretched, and, feeling her back pop a couple times, made a mental note never to sleep curled up on a couch again. Padding quietly into the kitchen, she saw Ron, dressed sloppily as usual, flipping pancakes. "Sleep well?" he asked without looking at her.

She smiled softly. "Great," she said, then added, "Thanks."

"For what?" he asked, confused, looking up at her over his shoulder.

She waved her hands in dismissal. "Making breakfast?" she covered quickly, changing the subject.

"Mhm," he nodded, turning to his attention to the pancakes again. "But don't tell my parents. They're still asleep and I don't want them to feel left out."

They both grinned.

There was silence for a few moments before he felt Kim rest her head on his shoulder from behind and give out a quiet sob, that one mournful sound that could shatter his heart in a single moment. Her arms, shaking uncontrollably moved to wrap around his chest, her fingernails clawing at his shirt when she was unable to hold on, trying her hardest to keep back her tears.

But they ran freely down her cheeks, wetting the shoulder of his jersey. "I can't cry," she murmured, barely distinguishable, "I can't be weak; I can't cry . . ." She finally managed to hold onto him and pulled herself closer, trying to muffle her cries with his body.

He turned to face her, pulling her into his arms, a pained expression on his face. More than anything he wanted to take her in his arms right there, to tell her that she wasn't the only one hurting, and that he'd never leave her. But he couldn't; no, it was for her own good, for, should he admit that much to her, he might be forced to admit what his subconscious told him his deep hidden motives were.

"I won't let go," was all he could muster, barely murmuring the words; she could scarcely hear him.

He looked down at her, and his blood took on a sudden chill at what he saw.

Her lifeless body slumped in his arms, bending backward, the precious neck twisted awkwardly to the side. Her eyes, open but glazed over, stared back at him in a blind sort of accusation, and those lips, once so perfectly kissable, stained with blood, a little trickle of the crimson liquid dripping from the corner of her mouth. Her entire form was limp, the clothing torn and drawn back, stained with red. But worse than that was what he saw when he looked to her right hand. Beneath it was a single white bud soaked in that same familiar red, and in her palm itself was that familiar engraving: the mark of the Plague.

He cried out in shock, jumping backwards.

He blinked a few times to see Kim, alive and well, giving him a hurt look, her slender arms hugging herself as she looked back at him, tearful. "Ron?" she whispered. "What's wrong?" When he did not respond, she ventured even more timidly, "I'm . . . I'm sorry?"

Ron blinked a few times, then shook himself free of his stupor. His mouth opened of its own accord, but no sound emerged. His arms hung uselessly at his sides.

"Ron," she called softly, taking a few steps toward him. "What's wrong?" She wiped frantically at her eyes and nose, cursing herself for being so weak. "Ron?" She reached a hand out to him, laying it upon his cheek.

He shrugged her away. "No."

"What?" She withdrew her hand, the pain in her voice obvious.

He shook his head.

She began to reach for him again, but he swatted her hand away.

"Ron? What is it?"

He lowered his eyes. "KP . . . Kim. I think it would be better if you went back to Josh now."

"Ron . . . I . . ." she began, but he cut her off harshly.

"Go already!" He turned away and raked his hands through his hair, seething.

She watched him for a moment, the way his entire body moved with his heavy breathing, the way his knuckles turned white, so tightly grasping his scalp. She'd never seen him like this before, so angry and so . . . so _human_. She'd never seen him express such emotions; emotions that would be normal for any other person, but not Ron, her Ron. He was always so happy, never so furious and disturbed, so stressed.

She took another step towards him, her hand outstretched. Her breathing came in ragged gasps. "Go!" he screamed, not even turning to face her.

She dropped her hand, looking at his back mournfully. "Goodbye, Ron," she said softly, turned and ran from his house, slamming the door behind her.

When he was certain she'd left, he turned round, his sobs wracking his entire body. He slid down to sit on the cold kitchen floor, and cried.

--

Kim ran down the street, the pavement rough against the smooth soles of her feet. She cried freely, only barely conscious that she was on her way to Josh's house. Ron had confirmed her worst of fears: he was capable of heartlessness. She'd seen him like that in only her worst nightmares; in those terrible, frightening nightmares.

She rounded the corner, and Josh's house came into view. Josh, yes, he would help her, listen to her, let her cry. But was that what she really wanted? As much as Monique's death hurt, not being able to express her grief was worse. The last thing she wished was to put another burden on Josh, as if it could jeopardize their relationship, but with Ron, she felt no matter how great the load, he would help her carry it. But now . . . ?

She must talk to Josh.

She looked to the familiar door, a sort of off-white paint peeling at the edges. But now, gazing upon it through her tears, she saw that all too familiar, dreadful image seeping through the wood like blood, a great red stain forming, oozing and dripping across the once welcoming sight.

A rose.

She felt a sort of wave wracking her body, and tried reached her hands to the pavement to break her fall, but found they did not respond.

--

"Kim?"

Who was that? That voice in the darkness? She tried to reach out, to grasp a name, a face; that of whom she cared about most. Those calm, caring eyes, that mop of blonde hair, those careful hands . . .

"Ron?" she whispered wearily, still dwindling on that twilight between wake and sleep.

"No," the voice chuckled sadly. "No, Kim." She felt two warm, loving arms wrap round her and pull her against an equally caring chest. "Darling, wake up . . ."

She opened her eyes slowly, her lashes fluttering. She saw that she was pressed to Josh's neck, his arms embracing her warmly as they sat on his living room couch.

"What happened?" she asked quietly, no questions or exclamations of love or identity. Something in her mind must have settled for the fact that this was Josh, not Ron . . . not Ron . . . ?

He pulled away to smile at her tenderly, albeit a bit sadly. His eyes held a sort of fretful relief, as if he'd feared something unimaginably terrible before she'd finally woken. "You fainted, dear." She shivered. He held her more tightly to warm her. "You had me pretty worried there for awhile."

A faint smile passed cross her lips. "You care," she stated simply.

"Of course I care!" he sad lovingly, still wary of speaking of why she fainted, and carefully set about combing her tangled hair with his fingers. He wondered why she'd come here, particularly in nothing more than her pajamas, and seemingly having cried just before. That was what disturbed him most; he'd never seen her cry, even though he was her boyfriend. It was one of those things he'd come to accept as impossible for her. _Kim Possible: the girl who can do anything . . . anything except _cry

She sighed in response, that morose quality taking over once more, that detached thoughtfulness that would worry anyone.

"Kim?"

"Ron's angry with me," she whispered, her voice trembling in some form of emotional pain.

"Ron?" Josh asked, pulling away slightly. "Why would he be angry at you?"

Kim sighed and leaned against him. "I really don't know," she began quietly, bringing up a hand to hold onto the front of his shirt. "I was upset when I woke up, and I was crying, and . . ." she considered telling him that Ron had been holding her, but decided against it, realizing that his understanding at her spending the night with Ron was more than enough. Ron and Josh may have become friends of sorts over the past couple months, but both were prone to jealousy, and she had to learn to understand and deal with it. "And all of a sudden he just told me to leave! He was so upset . . . and I'm scared . . ."

Josh pulled her closer and rubbed her back, as if expecting her to cry, but she did not. "Would you like me to talk to him?"

She seemed to consider this. "Maybe . . . I don't know." She toyed absently with her hair. "I really don't know what's wrong. What if it would just make him more angry?"

Josh looked at her, then began seriously, "Ron would never hurt you, Kim. You know that."

"He loves me," she murmured, staring blindly ahead.

Josh really didn't know how to respond.

Without a word, he stood, leaving Kim alone on the couch, in search of Ron Stoppable.

--

The doorbell rang.

Ron looked up dejectedly from his place on the kitchen floor. He'd sat there for the past hour and a half, crying and thinking, thinking and crying . . . and still he was miles away from an answer. Surely he could not be the source of the Plague itself, right? He wasn't capable of such evil, such accomplishment. After all, he was only the sidekick, wasn't he? The best friend. The third wheel. The buffoon.

That dream . . . he'd had others like it before, and they frightened him beyond all comprehension. The emotions and dread were familiar, the way in which he was watching the entire thing transpire from his own two eyes, but was unable to stop it, as if his body simply wouldn't respond to his demands. To kill his love would be an unforgivable sin, as would to confess such a deep emotion to the one he loved most. _Kim . . . _If he could do anything, it would be to hold her in his arms without any fears.

He feared for her.

Standing, he headed for the door, regaining his composure before opening it. And there he stood face to face with Josh Mankey.

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_Please, tell me what you think!_


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